Author's Notes: And here we are with another instalment. The next few updates may come more sparadic then I would like due to some RL events coming up at the beginning of the month, but after that, everything should be smooth until the end. This story has eaten my brain and my muse, so I shall try not to tarry too much.
Also, long chapter is long, and I had to cut it into two parts at that. Something tells me that you won't mind, though. ;)
And, that said, I do hope you enjoy this latest twist to the tale.
Part IX: through your dreams, and mine
The living approached the mist-realm.
In the dead waters of the Gnipahellir, deep and still, the woman whom mortal man once called Mara raised her head. Mara was formless; timeless, holding no soul save that which she gathered from the terror of mortal dreams. A hazy light illuminated her in the icy depths, the succor of millions making her facade of a face gleam golden in the flickering shadows of her waters.
From her frozen post, she could feel such a flame coming into Niflheimr.
Upon feeling the warmth of the travelers, she breathed in deep. She knew the shape and the feel of the living souls who came towards her. Such a heat they possessed, such a warmth . . . She had taken from these dreams before, she realized. In the far off pools she kept upon the Mórrigan's moon. She had drank of these dreams; had made their visions in the shape that the warring one called Anann had bid her to, paying of her own warmth to do so. And how those dreamers had sustained her, even with only so small a sip . . .
Such a warmth carried these two children of the flames, Mara so knew.
Perhaps, she reflected, after absorbing them whole, she herself would no longer feel eternally cold.
.
.
Through her centuries of warring by the side of the sons of Odin, Sif had thought that she had acclimated herself to every extreme condition there was to know. She had warred on the barren sands of Álfheimr, and had joined in assaults with her comrades deep in the sweltering rainforests of Svartálfaheimr. She had crossed blades on the frozen wastelands of Jötunnheimr, and thought to know what cold truly was while there.
Niflheimr was unlike anything she had ever faced before.
The land of mist and snow was a blinding world of silver and blue – so very different from the barren black and indigo tones of the Jötunn world. Just past where the bridge let them down, there was nothing to see except the ground – which instead of being one solid plane, was all barren and jagged rock. Deep clefts spider webbed across the land, tiny ravines that dipped down unseen into the heart of the world. The rough geometrical shapes formed by the rifts were all differing heights – some requiring that they leap up and then climb back out again, just to travel in a straight path.
Eventually, they came to the Iron Wood, and instantly it became apparent why the land was named so. From the deep ravines in the ground, tall and towering trees grew – but their bark was unlike anything Sif had seen before. The tones of them were silver; dark and metallic like the steel of her blade. There were grooves in the organic stems quite like the patterns and whorls made by bark, but these seemed almost artificial in their brilliance. The trees had long and spidery limbs, barren of foliage but for near the crowns of the boughs, where sparse leaves flickered like flakes of silver, pounded out by a master smith. Snow coated the trees in elegant, white lines, giving the land a frozen, delicate appearance.
Where the trees grew thicker, there were mountains in the distance – the barriers of the realm of Helgafjel – where the dread Lady Hel sent the souls who deserved rest and peace in the Afterlife, but not the reveling of warriors so provided by the hallowed Halls of Valhalla. The land of the peaceful dead was a vague glow on the other side of the mountains – a tired gold that decorated the silver sky like a setting sun. The light failed to move as they traveled, there was no celestial turn from east to west and back again in the realm where time had been begotten.
The mountains were hollow things, Frigg's map so said, cobbled and honeycombed with caverns and caves – the Gnipa caverns. The map spoke of a dozen so paths through the hollow halls, but they strayed away from such paths – for there they would have to face Mara, who rested her shadowed pools in the safe haven that the mountains provided. All of nature was balance, and where there were dreams, there was also terror, and Mara served as the black void where all terror did so go, unless it overwhelmed at night until mortal souls could take no more.
Sif did not question Thor's decision to keep to the open, she simply followed on the path he set, few words needed between them as they covered as much distance as quickly as they could. Centuries of such travels had made their routine second nature to them, and rather than waste her energy on words, she spent her time concentrating on leading Hófvarpnir as quickly as she could over the difficult terrain.
It was cold, and that much was a gross understatement. The chill in the air around them was an unholy cold which pulled at the points which were left still uncovered – her brow and the skin between her eyes. She was flame blooded and blessed, and the world of ice knew so as its icy fingers caressed about her. The cold of the realm tugged against the fire that fueled her soul. She could feel that flame shrink in the hold of the land, so far from anything she had ever known before.
And then it started to snow.
The blizzard was like no storm Sif had ever traveled through. The further into Niflheimr they traveled, the more the wind picked up. The gales drove the snow like daggers, creating sharp pinging noises - a demonic melody which played against her armor. The wind howled, moaning a ancient song that spoke of despair and hunger. The snow tunneled before them, making billowing clouds of silver and icy blue that shifted like rain the rain did about reeds between the trees of the Ironwood. It was hard to breathe with such a wind, and her breath came short and halting in her lungs.
The cold deepened, pulling at the spark of her soul.
They had not even traveled twenty rôsts when the storm increased in its intensity. Thor dismounted to lead his stallion on foot, and Sif followed suit. He was a smear of red and gold in the storm before her, dancing in and out of her vision like lightning in the storm clouds.
Sif did her best to keep pace. Against her back, her shield had warmed like it was aflame, and she drew the incessant metal. When she held it in her hand, the enchanted weapon gleamed bright – golden like the sun, a beacon of light in the storm. The shield was charmed for the defense of her – and here in the white wastes of Niflheimr, it was an ember fortifying the heat of her. Seeing so, Thor moved aside, letting her take point through the swirling maw of snow.
The flame at the core of her flickered, but no longer did she feel it set to blow out.
Another dozen rôsts passed, made slow by the demon of a storm they traveled through. She could feel the ice collect on the soles of her boots, on the plates of her armor. Her teeth chattered, the fur at the rim of her hood was white, caked over where the snow had melted from the heat of her, only to freeze back over once again. Her glaive would stick in its scabbard if she tried to draw it.
The going was slow, and she fought to keep her annoyance down in the deep of her, lest it bubbled over through the pores of her skin. Eir's spells would not hold Loki in stasis forever, and already the path to Niflheimr had taken so long . . .
Her fingers tightened over her shield. The metal pulsed, as if sensing the conflict within her.
Ahead of them, the entrances to the cavern yawned, swimming in and out of sight, and Sif bit her lip at the temptation they presented.
"Thor, the horses cannot take much more of this!" she hollered over the yawn of the wind. The gales caught her words, and threw them back through the air to Thor.
His eyes, when she glanced over her shoulder to see so, were very blue – glowing in the light of the storm. Above them, the mountains were silent sentinels in the mists. The trees were stony guardians, threatening.
"To the Gnipa caverns, then," called he to her, and she felt the weight in the decision. A new cold pulled at her bones, settling in the very marrow of her, and Sif tucked her shield in closer to it – the heat of the steel ever the scent of spring storms and magic and Loki. She breathed in deep, and let the memories of it calm the worry in her.
It was slow going to the caverns – the dips in the landscape were severe, and the horses were tired and frozen to the core. Thor had taken to casting Mjölnir before them both – leveling the landscape and lightening the way before them. The iron trees bended to the violence of the blows, but retained their shape as soon as they past – for such was the mysticism of Niflheimr.
As soon as they passed through the barrier of the caverns, Sif sucked in a deep breath. The air was still cold, but it was not a hardship to breathe within the cave's confines. Her lungs filled, and ached with the memory of the storm beyond. She shook, freeing the snow from her cloak and wishing once more that they had Loki with them so that he could aid in the most superficial of ways.
They made some way into the tunnel before coming to a stop. Her shield cast an eerie golden light on their surroundings, where stalagmites and stalactites stood both tall and ancient, forming both ceiling and floor of the cavern. The formations of them were small so close to the openings of the caves, but she would wager that their shapes grew even more severe and uncanny as the tunnels continued on.
Everywhere they looked, there were vast pools of water on the floor of the caverns – much like there had been within the Silver Forests upon the Mórrigan's moon. Mist rose from the pools, heightening the eerie feeling of the cave closing in upon them.
Carefully, Thor's eyes on her all the while, Sif walked to the edge of one of the larger pools, and peered down. Unlike the pools they had faced before, she could see her reflection in these waters. They pulled not at her soul when she looked through their depths to see their very bottoms. The spirit of Mara was not yet upon them.
When her shield pulsed – urging her to act, she raised a brow, and placed her shield down into the water. The water hissed as the partially sentient metal met it – instantly warming the waters until stream billowed rather than mist. The water took on the light of her shield, illuminating the cavern around them better than any fire or torch every would have been able to. The air warmed as well, and she and Thor traded a glance, glad that the magic gave them a moment to defrost. An unspoken agreement past, and she moved to set about unsaddling the horses and washing them down with the enchanted water – which would stay warm until it dried. Slowly, Sif felt the warmth returning to her limbs.
"How much further until we reach the Hel-gate?" asked Sif once her task was completed, for she was anxious to reach Hel's halls so that they may barter with the Queen for the Underwater.
Thor frowned, his brow troubled; he did not know of his brother's state from Sif's dreams, and if possible, his worry was even greater from the unknown. "I cannot say, my lady," he answered her. "Time moves different here. It feels as if hours have passed, but I cannot say if we have spent minutes or months here."
Sif's brow furrowed. "I do feel a headache approaching," she lamented as she tried to wrap her mind around the concept.
Thor's smile was rueful. "There is a reason that my brother normally takes the maps."
Sif turned her lips up wryly. "Then it is even more imperative that we restore him to full working order."
Thor's laugh was quick and short, and Sif warmed even further at it. He had a face made for smiles and laughter, she thought, and the heavy gravity of the days passed had not suited him. He sighed as he sat down next to the enchanted pool, his features sharp planes of gold and shadow from the light her shield cast.
"I do not believe it wise to try to navigate the Iron Wood any further," he finally said. "The storms will only worsen the further towards the heart of Niflheimr we approach, and we don't have the time to waste should we lose ourselves while upon that way."
Sif had feared as such. The storms were violent, and of an order that the Thunderer could not control. She bit her lip, and nodded. "I so agree."
"The Gnipa caverns," Thor said carefully. "We can make our way through the tunnels – the map speaks of several ways to reach Hel's Hall through the Helgfell mountains."
"And the Mara?" Sif voiced the concern they both held.
"We have faced them once before," Thor rolled his shoulders. "We shall do so again."
Her jaw set. "Indeed." That, at least, was a promise.
With the heat returning to her, she could feel her body turning weary; at last failing her as she felt the sharp talons of exhaustion prick against her skin. They had rode hard for nine days and nine nights, and only one of those nights, past that first, had they partook in rest. She paced restlessly before the lit pool, wishing for the stillness of those dreams once more.
Thor saw her, and proved that he knew her better than she herself did at times. He took the saddles and the furs, and took to making a camp to suit them for the next few hours. He brought out the dried rations they had, and sat first at the edge of the water. Sif eyed him for a long moment before finally sitting next to him. Smiling, Thor handed her her portion of the dried meat, and Sif rolled her eyes at the earnest expression upon his face.
Silence stretched between them, and from beyond they could hear a dull echo of the storms. The song echoed between the rock formations that made the caverns; their graceful and looping designs catching the wind and turning it into a dull and mournful song. The air was silvered blue around them, even with the golden light that danced from Sif's shield. This was a land where magic lingered in the very air, and she shivered at the feel of it against her skin.
"The realm is unlike any other we have been to," said Sif, her voice soft, lost to the enchanted feel of the world.
"It is unique, as all are," Thor shrugged.
"The air reminds me of Álfheimr," Sif remarked, her voice fond with memory. "The woods sing there. I can hear that song here a hundred times more so, even through the storm."
"Magic and mysticism," Thor waved a hand dismissively. "That is all."
"It is a pity that we travel without Loki," said Sif. "He would have been fascinated by this realm."
"Indeed," Thor agreed. "The monsters here are more to his ability to slay." There was not quite a compliment in the words, but there was no slight, so Sif let the words pass as she sipped at her ale. The golden liquid tasted of home, and warmed her even more still.
"Do you remember the tale of creation?" asked Sif. The enchanted waters before them were no bard's fire, but the magic had lit something ancient in her veins, and she felt the verses ache to slip from her tongue.
"I believe that I slept through Master Eldgrim's lectures that day," Thor admitted ruefully. "Only bits and pieces stuck with me."
Sif rolled her eyes, and Thor held his arms up in defence. "I know my histories for the lands I must soon rule. The mystical tales, I left to Loki to memorize. I have no need of them, and he shall be adviser at my side whenever there are gaps in my knowledge." Always would it to be so to Thor, and his smile was wide at the thought.
And so she leaned forward, knowing that her shadow would be cast long and full behind her.
"In the time before time," Sif started her tale, "there existed the nothingness of the yawning void. Ginnungagap was the name of the universe before time started to turn, and like everything in existance, she held within herself two poles. The northern part of the void was all freezing wastes and icy rain, called Niflheimr; and the southern part of the void, which was made of ash and flame, was called Múspellsheimr. Now, where these two extremes met, there was a seed, and this seed was great Yggdrasil herself. She took root in the Ginnungagap, and started to grow, feeding on the two extremes that resided there.
"Now, Yggdrasil became aware that she was barren and naked as her bows started to strech through the cosmos. And so, she began to create. From the ice and cold of Niflheimr, she pulled out magic and the power over the elements of creation. First, she carved out her strong trunk and thick branches, and created beings tall and strong enough to carry her heavy burden. She named the father of the ice giants Ymir, and on his back she created Jötunnheimr. Next, to stand as her her spidery arms and fingers, she created Álfheimr, and begot to elves the seiðr of nature and all her ways. The Ljósálfar, which are the light elves, and the Dökkálfar, which are the dark elves; are all either born of wood or water or air, and they carry the elemental magic within their veins.
"Now, at the same time, from Múspellsheimr she pulled the warm ether to create Svartálfaheimr. To this realm she gave the dwarves the power over the forges in their deep mountains. It is to them she begot the power over magical objects, for creation is balance, always balance. Once magic was created, and the control over magical items was begotted, she decided to create her eyes – her guardians and eternal warriors. And so, she plucked from the heavens the brightest falling star to create Asgard, which she placed upon her highest bough. The Aesir, and their brother people the Vanir, were created to protect and defend all that Yggdrasil held scared. This is why the Aesir are unparalleled with steel and battle, for it is this we were carved and called forth from the void.
"But then, mother Yggdrasil realized that she did not have a heart. But there was not enough in either the land of fire, nor the land of ice to create another realm. So, she drew from the land of fire, and the land of ice to create her last gift. Midgard, she named the land of mankind, which she placed in the middle of her great mass. This is why mortal kind have such a capacity for good and evil, for it is of ice and fire they were created.
"The ninth realm did not come until human kind started to turn upon each other, and brought Death into the world. Helheimr was carved into the frozen heart of Niflheimr, and the realm of Death was given to Lady Hel, the daughter of the man only known as Chaos. She was pulled from the loom of Time to reside from beginning to end first and then once again. It is to her we now travel for the waters left flowing from the time of creation."
Her tale ebbed off, lost to the musical cadence of magic in the air. She was still for a minute, tilting her canteen back and forth so that the liquid sloshed around within. Thor was silent too, his brow furrowed as he let her words sink in.
"You tell the tale as my brother would," Thor finally said, his voice soft.
"The words are his very own," Sif whispered, picking at the straps of her armor. She had joined Thor in absentmindedness during Master Eldgrim's lectures, and the last night she had dreamed, Loki had whispered the myth into her ear as she had faded off to sleep. She could hear his voice, warm and liquid as she spoke. Always would it echo so with her, even if he were to falter and never again would it be to her ears to hear him speak.
Her hands tightened, making a fist.
Thor nodded, the feeling upon his brow making it heavy. He breathed in deep.
Sif forced her fingers to relax. She exhaled.
"Well then," Thor declared with a false levity, moving on from the tale and its weight. "We shall rest here for a few candlemark's time, and then navigate the tunnels in the morning."
Sif frowned. "Would that be wise?" she asked, thinking of time in a way that was usually far from her and her immortal kind.
"You have not slept in three nights time," said Thor. "I'd rather you take your slumber here before we make it further into Mara's realm."
Her frown deepened. "And yet . . ." she could think of no logical way to give a voice to her fears, she only held a nameless dread upon her tongue. Loki would know how to voice her thoughts so, but he was not there with her, and so Sif's words were her own.
"Would you rather take rest in Hel Queen's Hall?" Thor asked then.
Her face scrunched – better to face the dream-thief than the Queen of the dead. "I see your wisdom," her voice teased.
Thor puffed up at her words. "I can be wise at times," he said proudly.
"Ever so often," gave she, smiling with her teasing.
She stood for a moment, spreading out the furs she had been resting on. When she laid down, using her saddle as a pillow and facing away from the light of the pool they had enchanted, she said, "Thor, if I dream . . ." her voice faded, unsure of how she was to phrase her request.
"I shall wake you," he vowed, knowing her fear without her having to say so.
She nodded her head, the movement sharp. "Thank-you, my friend."
Thor smiled, the motion crooked upon his lips. "It is only dreams you fear, Sif."
"Only dreams," she echoed hollowly.
She laid her head back upon the saddle, and drew the furs up around her. She inhaled deep; exhaled slow.
Only dreams, she reminded herself.
Only dreams . . .
.
.
And Sif dreamed.
.
.
Winter had come to Asgard, and it had lingered.
The winter had been unlike anything that Goðheimr had experienced before. The cold was cutting, and the snow had failed to cease. The thick clouds from the storm had obscured both sun and moon, making Sól work furiously to light the world below them through the great mists that came to cover the eternal realm.
Sif pulled her furred hood tighter about her face, and moved to brush the snow from her eyelashes once again.
The charms set by the Álfar mages had failed to keep the snow form heaping up on the various bridges and causeways that crisscrossed the great city. Ice blanketed everything, and few were those who came out of doors unless it was absolutely needed. For three turns when the summer season should have been upon them, winter lingered instead, and there were none in the realms who could so explain the phenomenon. None but the Norns. None but those who so held the whisper of prophesy within them.
There were many families from the outlying lands of Asgard who had made their way to the capitol thanks to the onset of the Fimbulvetr – the Great Winter which had assulted the height of Yggdrasil's branches and refused to let go. Sif stood with the first prince at the entrance of the great halls that had been erected to deal with the refugees. She held a quill and parchment within her hand, tallying the families who made their way into the halls before her. Each face who passed them was weary and wane, and she fought a frown over the fear and unease that had slipped into the Aesir like a murky poison.
"That is another five dozen, just in the first candlemark," said Sif to her soverign.
Thor, whose responsibilities as lord and ruler had trippled even though he technically had yet to hold the crown, looked just as tired as the refugees who passed their way – though he kept up a good face for the people. He had been long with his father in the halls of Valhalla over the past several fornights, preparing the ranks of the Einherjar and the Valkyrie for the fight they could all feel building in their very bones. Frigg had been tireless at her loom, and the Norn resolute of their vision, and the few who knew of the approaching Twilight wore armor at all times, ears attuned for the sound of Heimdall's horn in the distance. Her brother, who peered into the depths of Múspellsheimr and Niflheimr both, watched as the forces that built against them gathered; and his horn was poised to blow.
And yet, until that day came, all they could do was wait. And prepare.
"That makes near to twelve thousand in total," said Thor, his voice troubled. He had one hand stroking his chin where he had let his beard grow in since the Fimbulvetr's onset in a restless way. His clear eyes were clouded. "And that is just of Asgard's people. The number is doubled for the Vanir. Not as much so for the Álfar and Svartálfar – both of whom have given more of warriors than of refugees."
Sif shook her head, making another scratch of her quill. When another family passed, the father stopped and clasped Thor on the arm – conveying his graditude for the measures that had been taken to aid them. There were three little ones with the young farmer couple, and Thor stepped away from the father in order to toss the smallest one into the air. The fair haired little girl gave a laugh, and those closest to the enterance smiled upon hearing the sound – for too rare was its cadence as of late.
Thor watched the child as she went forward with her parents, his eyes heavy. Sif stepped forward in order to place a hand on her friend's shoulder, knowing of the weight that resided there. "We will get them through this," she said, her voice low and intense with a warrior's vow.
"Of course," Thor said, shaking away his heavy mood from his eyes. He straightened, and Sif let her hand drop away. "The Valkyrie formed their ranks today," he finally said. "The Einherjar are ready to march as well."
Sif snorted, her opinion of the warriors who had spent so many centuries drinking and reveling in Valhalla's halls low enough. She did not know how they would face up against the ranks that would be awakened from Hel's realm.
"The sun will not shine past this day," Thor finally said. "We are trying to keep the people calm through the Twilight. They will stay inside the warded halls whilst we do battle."
Sif nodded, her shield warming at her back in readiness. As always, the warmth came with its own weight.
"And Heimdall cut off the way?" asked she.
They had broken the byway of the cosmos to keep the travelers from Midgard away from the final battle. Thor's mortal wife, and his human rank of comrades had been insistant in joining Asgard in the final fight, but Thor would not risk them so. The mortal Lady carried his son, and the human warriors had no idea what they would so face from the depths of the realms of creation. Yggdrasil moaned into the wind, her pain felt in the spark of every one of her children.
"Yes, Heimdall cut off the way," said Thor, his voice hollow.
Sif breathed in deep. "You will be returned to her, my friend."
Thor nodded, the movement sharp. "Perhaps."
Perhaps not. The prophesies wove such a bleak tale, but they had triumphed against such odds before. She opened her mouth to say so when above them, the sky shuddered.
There was a low, awful cry that flickered with the horizon and grew. The sound of it swelled like a wave, rolling in upon itself and flaring in a bright and brilliant cressendo. Sif felt her bones rattle, her lungs aching as Yggdrasil screamed into her very soul. She pitched forward, Thor catching her as they both were forced to their knees from the force of the onslaught.
Above them, the sun wavered.
The sound of the breaking cosmos pitched – like a wolve's song, but deeply set. Evilly so. Malliciousness climbed up and down the world tree's boughs, and ill intent sank its claws in deep into the bark of the ash until it found Yggdrasil's eternal ichor. The song rose; broke.
And then the stars went out.
Darkness descended like a curtain over Goðheimr, until there was nothing but the most unatural night around them all. Sif stiffened, remembered a vision she had experienced in what seemed like a life time ago. Her mouth filled with the taste of copper at the memory, and she pressed her tongue to the back of her teeth, finding the taste of blood there as well.
"Thor?" she called, her heart in her throat, even though she had vowed that it would not be so. She had thought to hold her head high when the Twilight came, and bare her teeth to her people's end.
She searched for his hand, and felt it as a vice about her wrist when he found her in the eternal shadow. She choked upon it, the blackness and the winter coating her lungs.
From the horizon beyond, Heimdall's horn blew.
When Thor's voice came, it was a weak shadow of the thunder it normally was.
"And so it begins."
.
.
And Thor stood guard.
.
.
In the silence that descended when Sif gave way to sleep, Thor stayed awake.
His mighty limbs were restless, and so he took to pacing. He walked up and down the length of the glowing pool, needing movement, but unsure of what to do with himself. Niflheimr had lit an odd chill in his veins – fighting with the spark of his very soul, and he kept moving as if to warm himself. The horses nickered every time he passed close to them, as if anxious to quell his anxiety.
Every so often, he glanced to Sif's face, checking for any sign of a dream. He could see none, save for a faint furrow that clung to her brow. He let her be, knowing how deeply his brother's loss had struck at her. For all of the ire that the shield-maiden bore for the Trickster, he knew that she was as close with Loki as he himself was. Their's was a relationship that Thor had tried to understand many a time before throughout the years, before giving up on the thought. Sometimes, he was almost completely certain that his brother fancied the headstrong woman, and he wished by his father's ravens that the two would end their antagonistic dance and do something about the feelings they clearly held. But, that would be the same as asking the mighty tides to flow away from their rush to meet the shore.
He shook his head at his thoughts, before coming to a stop. Around him, the elemental music in the air had risen. The caves hummed with a song that he could not understand. The melody had quickened as time passed by him. The waters of the pools started to bubble and froth in a way that was not from Sif's shield.
Something approached.
Setting his jaw, Thor dipped his hand into the pool to retrieve Sif's shield. He placed the enchanted metal down by his slumbering friend, knowing that his brother's spells would protect her while Thor faced down whatever foe the cavern would choose to send to him.
The melody around him quickened, turning low and supple, the melody of it taking on a sensuous edge. A siren's song filled the air as mist rose from the pools.
Thor set his jaw, and held Mjölnir so that the hammer cast a blue light about his surroundings. Thunder rattled in his veins, and his voice was laced with static when he demanded, "Whosoever thou are, show yourself."
The command drew a bubble like laughter from the air, the sound akin to water trickling over small stones. He stiffened. "You will show yourself now," he commanded once more. "It is the son of Odin who demands it so."
"We answer not to thee, Odinson," the voice in his ears was like no voice he had ever heard before. It was a hundred voices who spoke in an echo – as if the entity he faced had no voice save for the ones it had stolen from others. "For thou hast no authority in the realm of mist and ice."
"My father's jurisdiction spreads to all nine realms," Thor declared arrogantly. "And I will have you comply."
"Thou speaks boldly, flame-born," the voice echoed. A few paces from them, the waters in the pools bubbled fiercely, the mist taking on shape and form. "Very well, child, we shall humor thee."
Thor tensed, Mjölnir held tight within his hands. The blue light from the hammer cast an eerie glow as the mists consolidated, taking the form of a woman – a dozen such woman with full and graceful bodies. Their forms were voluptuous, made of light and water, ever shifting and fluctuating before his eyes. The shapes Mara took were bare, with rippling waves that mimicked the fall of hair. Bright white lights formed sightless eyes, intent upon his own. Their legs faded into a great swell of foam and brilliant water below her knees - the bodies she chose to show him were ever shifting, constantly remorphing upon themselves.
"Dost thou approve of what thine eyes see?"
"Your form means nothing to me," Thor declared. "State your purpose within these caverns."
Laughter sounded, low and tingling as the waters of her form pulsed. "These caverns all around are mine own, and thou would ask for my purpose? Foolish flame-child, slumbering so by Mara's pools. Dost thou not know of the temptation thy warmth provides me?"
"You are Mara, then?" Thor bid the specter to answer.
"You speak true," the various women in the water merged into one form, towering over Thor.
"Dream-thief," Thor spoke coldly, "you will leave us now. We have an urgent matter that draws us to Hel's gates, and we wish to pass through your domain in peace."
The spirit cocked its head, its mass of hair a brilliant and blue halo about her head – shifting as if she were under water rather than above. "Thou marches so for the blood of Loki Odinson?" the spirit said thoughtfully. "Thy mission boils in thy veins. The warmth of thee . . . feeding off of thy warm dreams could fan the flame of mine own soul for all of eternity."
Thor held Mjölnir up. "And that is something that I cannot give."
"The choice does not belong to thee," the form of Mara grew huge, filling the cavern. The surf bubbled all around her, foaming and salty on the air. "Already she gives so much," Mara pointed a blue finger to the slumbering Sif, safe under her shield. "She dreams, and her dreams feed mine own soul." Indeed, the form of Mara pulsed, brilliant and bright, even as the color drained from Sif's face.
Thor felt his blood go cold, remembering the last time Sif had suffered Mara's visions. Not again.
"You will release her from you hold," Thor declared.
Mara split once more into a dozen forms, and her voice when she spoke echoed awfully – within the tones, Thor heard children, old men and women, the pleasing tones of a wife, and the gruff tones of a father warrior. All dreamed. All of their terror at night, Mara had caught and captured as her own. "Thou cannot stop me. Thy rage furthers thy warmth, and now I shall feast."
"We shall see," Thor said, tossing Mjölnir from hand to hand before lifting the enchanted weapon to the heavens far above them.
Lightning filled the cavern, and Mara laughed.
.
The Thunderer roared.
.
.
And Sif continued to dream.
.
.
Away from the ever winter, there was a dark and clouded place.
Sif traveled over the land as if she had wings, scanning quick and nimble as if she gazed through eyes not her own. A massive figure with short downturned horns bellowed deep within the forges of Múspellsheimr. Surtr the Fiery one was a smoldering beast, a giant cut from the very heart of the flames in the fire-world's belly. He hollered to the sky as the great land erupted volcanic ash, and rained down embers and coal.
She flew through the smoke until she reached the very cosmos itself. She pierced through time and space, traveling in a dizzying whirl over great Yggdrasil's starry roots until she reached the second world of creation. The world of ice and snow flew by her in flashes of silver and grey until she reached the river Gjöll and the banks of hellish Náströnd itself.
Sif was dropped unceremoniously from her flight, down upon the black as soot shores. She screwed her eyes closed, expecting to strike the rock as a blow, but instead her landing was soft. She was almost formless, a shadow as she took in her surroundings with tactical eyes.
The land awaiting the evil dead was a place of black rock, the tops of which were webbed over by glittering roots, fine and white, like hair that spider-webbed over anything and everything all around her. Above her, massive wooden claws – roots which were big enough to top a world - formed a cage, curving down and around until it was as if she stood in the belly of a great beast and stared up at its ribs, picked clean by carrion crows. Bones littered the ground, some fresh and some ancient, and their rotting smell was masked only by the scent of sulfur and smoke upon the air. A thick black mire clung to her boots beneath her, sucking upon her every step.
A roaring sound rose and settled not only in her ears, but within her heart with the sound's rage and pain. She winced upon hearing it, her hand falling to where her glaive would be out of reflex. But she was bare of steel. She had not even her shield at her back. She felt naked in that moment as the realization set in, oddly defenseless without those items she held dearest to her.
Still she squared her jaw, and dared to look past the black and porous rocks that concealed her.
Right beyond her shadowed hiding place, there was a dragon – a figure from her people's nightmares and darkest tales. She had faced wyrms before – those dragons who wished her harm, and those who wished her well; but this one was different than all. This one was Níðhöggr, incarnated evil, the black soul who was imprisoned by Yggdrasil's very roots. Sif felt her heart seize once she realized what exactly the rib like formations were upon her, and felt a prayer falling from her lips in answer to her surroundings.
Níðhöggr was a massive wyrm, filling his nest until there was nowhere else to turn to – nowhere else to hide. His glittering eyes were red and mad from the centuries of his imprisonment, and he snorted and clawed at the ground before him in response to the figure who dared to address him. A man whose back was to Sif – a man who wore the black of night like a second skin, with tall golden horns sweeping back from his brow . . .
She felt her breath catch in her throat when she recognized the figure from her Mara inspired vision upon the Mórrigan's moon. The man who was to be Asgard's destroyer stood before the dragon, beseeching it . . . reasoning with it. Sif felt her blood, sluggish in her veins, spike when she realized just what she was witnessing.
"Already the Twilight begins!" the horned figure hollered up to the wyrm. "The great winter has ran its course, and the very sun and moon have been devoured. The forces of Jötunnheimr are set to march on my command. Alongside the denizens of Hel Queen's realm, we meet Odin and his sacred army from Valhalla this very eve! Rise up with me, Níðhöggr, just as your kindred Surtr has agreed to do. Let us end the haughty and hypocritical reign of Odin, and let a new life grow upon the morning!"
Sif held her breath through the speech, wondering at the power of such a voice. Such a warm voice, but so hoarse and corroded, as if it had known more of screaming than of words kindly spoken in his life. She could not see his face, but she could see his hands, long and white – artists hands, that were crisscrossed with long scars, as if he had been bound by something enchanted, and had thrashed mightily against it. A faint tremor in her soul wondered at the possibility of such a man holding a true reason to hate Odin Allfather, and she brushed it away. Odin was her king and sovereign, a wise man and kind father to her two dearest friends, and he did not deserve her treason, even in the farthest corners of her mind.
At long last, the dragon bowed, kneeling down on one knee as it inclined its massive head before the proud figure that would be her people's doom. "Mine own heart shall be aligned with thee."
"Then I accept your servitude," the horned man said. "Now, burn the roots from about yourself, and rise against Yggdrasil eternal!"
The dragon laughed, and from his nose spewed flames – bright and violent, and so hot that Sif felt herself burning within her armor.
Her heart pounding furiously, she darted down the side of the riverbank, hoping that she was small enough to escape the dragon's notice as she sought to escape the flames. Black sludge clung to her boots, slowing her as her fingers scrambled for purchase upon the rock mass. The dragon snorted, and she could smell sulfur and brimstone fill the air. Flames licked over the water, and Sif darted her gaze about her surroundings, looking for a way to escape and report what she had seen.
And then strong hands locked about her shoulders, staying her. "Sif!" the hissed syllable was loud in her ears.
She started, before turning boneless when she saw that it was Loki who so had her in his hold. Loki – her Loki with his pallid skin alight by Eir's spells, and eyes so verdant under the sunken shadow which they resided in. His hands were cold, she could feel them as anchors against the heat and chaos of the flames all around her.
"The dragon," her voice hiccuped in her throat, "he strikes so against Yggdrasil. Against Asgard -"
He held a finger to her lips, silencing her. His eyes were fever wild. "Hush, Sif, it is just a dream you see."
A dream? Her mind reeled around the concept. How could she dream so, with the dragon's laughter in her ears, and the scent of death all around her? And oh, but twice so had she dreamed of the horned man who would bring destruction and all ends to Asgard eternal.
"A dream," the whisper trembled upon her tongue as she repeated after him.
"Mara's pools," Loki's voice was swift, forcing her to remember. "Thor battles the dream-thief, and you cannot assist him if you give into Mara's false visions. Awaken! Sif, you must wake up."
Beyond them, the dragon's roars were terrible. The roots all around her, like the belly of a great beast, shuddered and groaned as their deep setting was ripped from the base of the cosmos. She screwed her eyes shut. Forced them to open. "But how?" asked she, hating the desperation in her voice.
Loki shook his head, his hair, curling and disheveled, flew about him as he did so. "I cannot awaken you. You must do so. Thor cannot fight the dream-catcher without you. You must awaken now, or you never will again. Your nightmare will be eternal."
"I grasp the gravity of the situation," Sif so snapped, her eyes fierce as the flames all around them threatened to grow. "But how does one awaken, when one already feels awake?" She tried to will consciousness into her mind, tried to feel her body slipping from this false vision into one real, but nothing happened.
Around them, the flames threatened to grow.
The dragon hollered, and Sif felt the all smothering heat reach her hiding place.
"Loki?" she asked, turning as if to reach out to him.
He reached for her hand, his eyes wild, and -
.
.
- Sif awakened.
She blinked furiously against the sleep which still clung to her, making her eyes heavy, held down by what felt like so many weights. Her body worked against her; she could not sit up, could not move. Her will was not her own as her mind tried once more to pull her against unconsciousness. There was a black shadow all about her, a sweet music in her ears bidding her to sleep. Mara's magic was a siren's song in her ears, and Sif fought vehemently against the dream-thief's hold.
She was able to tilt her head the slightest bit, and she found Thor battling a mystical woman, seemingly created of the surf and sand. Mjölnir struck again and again against the watery woman – who split from one form and then into dozens; surrounding Thor, overwhelming Thor. Thor's blows could do naught to touch her, and the brilliance of his storms filled the caverns, louder evem than Mara's tinkling laughter.
Sif tried to turn. She tried to keep her eyes open, to reach for her steel and shield, and assist Thor in his fight when -
.
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Sif fell back into dreams.
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The Thunderer continued his fight.
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And in the hall of Eir, the healer stood watch with her lady Queen.
Frigg had risen from her vigil by her son's bedside when she saw the way his brow furrowed, even though he slept. Frowning, she held a hand through the enchanted barrier to stroke Loki's forehead soothingly, finding it clammy to the touch. His mouth moved in such small motions, giving life to syllables his warring body could not utter.
Eir's wane face looked troubled as she reached over to touch the prince's pulse. Her fingers lingered, tired and still.
Frigg bit her lip, worry deep within her gaze as she turned to her friend. "Does he dream?" she asked Eir.
"Don't we all, my lady?" Eir so replied, her voice heavy. Ancient and tired as she repeated, "Don't we all . . ."
Mira's Mythological Madness
Note: I am far from an expert in Norse paganism, and all mistakes are mine own. ;)
Rôst: Literally 'a rest'. One of the Viking measurements for distance, which was calculated by how long it took to get from one rest place to the next - which would be a rough mile by our equvalants.
Gnipahellir: The caverns in Niflheimr underneath the Helgafjell mountains, where Mara rests, and Garmr stands watch.
Helgafjell: A peaceful Hall in Hel's realm where those who didn't die a warrior's death found their afterlife in peace.
Náströnd: Comparable to the Greek Tartarus – the black part of Hel's realm where evil souls were cast to in the afterlife. Here they were devoured by the dragon, Níðhöggr.
Níðhöggr: The dragon imprisoned in Niflheimr, who gnawed at the roots of Yggdrasil. He, along with Surtr, will be the two to set fire to the Yggdrasil during Ragnarök.
Hvergelmir: The spring in Niflheimr where all cold rivers come from – one half of the force needed for creation. Now, the dragon has his nest above the spring, where he gnaws on Yggdrasil's roots and devours the evil dead.
Ragnarök: The Twilight of the Gods, the final battle of good versus evil where all will die, and a select few will be reborn to restart the cycle of life anew. The exact events of the end of the world are: First, the Fimbulwinter will come – a winter so cold and deadly that it will last three years. At the end of this, the wolves will succeed in their quests to devour sun and moon – upon which, Heimdall will blow his horn, awakening the fallen warriors in the hall of Valhalla. The violence of the falling stars free Loki from his bonds, and he goes to Hel to gather up an army of the dead. They sail from the underworld on a ship made of human nails, cresting on the waves made by the world serpent – who too exits the sea to join the fray. Loki's undead army team up with the Jötunn forces, and together they wage war against the Aesir/Vanir and the fallen from Valhalla. While they are destroying each other (Fenrir kills Odin, Thor slays Jörmungandr but is mortally wounded, Loki and Heimdall slay each other), the dragon and the fire giant Surtr (who has the forces of Múspellsheimr) set fire to Yggdrasil eternal. All die, but for a man and a woman – and Baldr, who is symbolic of spring and new life, and from this mankind is created . . . There is a whole debate on the Christian influences on such a myth (the dragon, an apocalyptic battle, a new heavens and a new earth), but that is a discussion for another time. ;)
Einherjar: The dead warriors who have been feasting in Valhalla, who are called upon to fight against Loki's forces during Ragnarök.
Sif's Creation Tale: Is half mine, and half myth. I leave it to you to decide which was which. ;)
Sif's Shield: You can find out much more about when reading 'Steel in your Hand', seeing as how it is basically a third character in that tale. In that story, Loki enchanted the shield to protect her, and since he infused it with a bit of his life force, it is her constant link to him.
Mara: A dream stealing wraith mentioned in Celtic, Norse, and Germanic folklore. (Called a Mare, Mara, and Marh, respectively) that stole your terror from dreams. This is where the term 'nightmare' comes from. She is often compared to Incubi and Sucubi.